The Frost Killer
An old dirt path winds between the shadows of Icosyl Pines, almost entirely obscured by a heavy dusting of nearly untouched snow.
Very little does anything cross this path.
At a crossroads, a crimson sign is mutilated into a stag, its vacant eyes staring at any who dare to approach. Do not enter. Take the other path.
Do not enter.
The trees don't grow any closer, but their shadows seem to stretch longer, as if the branches wish to reach out, to grasp, to remove; to pull at fabric or hair or fur and save any life from this wretched place.
Another broken and bloodied sign hangs to a tree by a crossbow bolt, frost clinging to the mummified remains of human skin. Do not enter. Turn back.
Do not enter.
A wolf howls, snow crunching like bones beneath the hunter's feet. The hunt begins as the prey proceeds past the final warning.
Frigid fur blocks the path, a snout with a smile too wide, teeth too crooked, six eyes too wild to belong to any acceptable creature. A beast made by mad hands, its abominable growl grinding and low. The hunter's dog corners the prey.
A black coat framed with silver fur approaches in black leather boots. The skull of some bird far too large to be natural stares blankly ahead, frosted blue glass guarding the eyes of the hunter beneath the mask.
Bones crunch like snow beneath his boot as he forces his prey to the frozen dirt below. It only takes one bolt to paint the snow.
He leaves his dog to pick the prey apart, he'll hang the sign that's left behind another time.
The Frost Killer leaves behind a fresh patch of crimson snow.
